Murmurs in Death
by PallaPlease
Summary: [Alternate ending TM.]  If the mummy of Anck-su-namun had slain Evelyn...Rick carries on - but, as they say, death is only the beginning.  Angsty, smutty, action - review?  Prologue up.
1. Teaser

Notes: A teaser for an upcoming alternate ending 'The Mummy' I've begun working on. Won't post it, probably, if no one shows any interest. ^^;  
  
Etc.: Anck-su-namun killed Evelyn before the guards got to *her*. All ya need to know for this. Oh, and Nefertari (the correct spelling for Nefertiri's name) exists separately in the afterlife from Evelyn; Meela and Anck-su-namun were melded in TMR, and Nefertari has yet to meld with Evelyn in this fic. If that made sense...  
  
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Murmurs in Death: Excerpt/Teaser from Chapter Two   
  
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Nefertari turned to look at her with a faint expression of shock, confusion and - Evelyn thought it might be sadness, but she could not tell; considering they shared the same face, she found this slightly alarming and was prepared to say so when she heard the voice that had given the other her reason to grow still:   
  
"Evelyn?" asked the baritone voice, powerful and lost, as if its owner knew not where he was. Arguably he did not; this was her soul's paradise in the afterlife and thusly it was all but mind-boggling that he could enter, even if he had died.   
  
She could not think on it, though, not with the way she could suddenly feel as if all her senses had come alive, hearing distantly as the warm flooding thud of her blood slowly began to start again. Evelyn did not know how it was Rick had come to her, not unless he had taken his life or - God forbid - Imhotep had echoed Anck-su-namun's last action and taken the man's soul from his body, but she knew he had come. He always comes, whispered a voice in the back of her head; he saved me when I was attacked on the boat, fought with me when I hated him, came to me when I was to die.   
  
And so was she terribly surprised that O'Connell had found some way to come to her heaven?   
  
"He should not be here," Nefertari whispered, her voice oddly pained, like that of a small girl seeing something her heart truly desired but not being able to scrape up the courage to speak it aloud. "He cannot be here..."   
  
But Evelyn was already running between the elegant copses of trees, her tangled black hair twisting in the wind with each step, and she broke free of the sky's coloring winds, her run slowing to a hesitant walk in a few moments. As she slowed, fading into a motionless stand with the coils of her black nightgown and scarf - what last she had worn, so vastly inappropriate to speak to the man she had come to realize she loved - she felt the fear grow stronger than her joy, anger more powerful than her love.   
  
"What in heaven's name are you doing here, O'Connell?" she shouted, her voice breaking and sudden tears blinding her. "How can," she choked, lifting her hands to press her palms to her dark eyes, unable to meet his piercing gaze, "how can you be here, unless you are dead?" She could not stand it if he were dead, no matter if she was already dead herself, no matter if they might be together in the beauty of the afterlife; she wanted him to live and experience everything.   
  
"Evelyn?" he asked, his deep voice piercing the solitude stillness that had overtaken her Egyptian paradise. She heard him stepping through the rich grass - lush and green, so different than that which cultivated Egypt with harsh brittle stalks - and then felt his hands, warm and calloused and large on the nearly bare skin of her shoulders, brushing her skin. "Oh, God, Evelyn--!"   
  
She dropped her hands, prepared to scream at him for being so foolish as to die - part of her knew it was childish but did nothing to speak against her urge - and wanting to grab him, hold herself to him as they existed together, and his grip changed from hesitantly gentle to strong and--   
  
Needy.   
  
Evelyn glanced up at him, surprise on her own features as she recognized the intent, faraway look on his face as being that of affectionate hunger; he had worn the same expression when he first saw her in the clinging, gauzy Bedouin dress.   
  
"O'Connell," she started, unsure if her tone was indignant or wondering, and then he had bent his head down the inches separating them, crushing his mouth to hers. She closed her eyes, feeling a tiny prick of moisture where his tongue pierced her lips, and the winds murmured, resuming their whispering songs in her new world.   
  
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End Teaser/Excerpt   
  
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Feedback: Really, seriously, wholly - I'd be very appreciative. *nods* And, truly, I have several other stories to work on, so if no one seems interested, I won't keep this up/post anymore. :] Not trying to annoy, but I have a limited time on the computer to write and I do have other stories I need to finish.  
  
Disclaimer: Stephen Sommers can have my vital organs - if he wants 'em. Universal owns, I don't. But I wish I did! (Does that count?) My nickel for Jonathan offer still stands...  
  
Murmurs in Death: Teaser/Excerpt originally posted at http://graceofshadows.tripod.com/soincredible/ on July 03, 2003. 


	2. Prologue

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Murmurs in Death: Prologue  
  
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"...Anck-su-namun!" she heard Jonathan crying, his voice too light to ever pierce a bellow. Breathing heavily in the alcove the decayed princess had shoved her into, that curved and horribly wicked blade of gold poised to thrust deep in her chest, Evelyn watched, eyes as round as they had ever been and shoulders arched up in a defense that would be worthless if she were truly attacked. It took a moment, as Anck-su-namun's mummy pulled her flapping, desiccated arm up in preparation for the killing blow, for the small woman to remember what, precisely, Jonathan's yelling the woman's name meant.  
  
The blade glinted yellow in the vain light of the underground burial chamber, a dusky bit of flickering shine in the dusty clouds obscuring everything, but she smiled triumphantly anyway up at the lithe creature. The rhythmic stomping of the Med-jai dead, mummified and wrapped in ages past to serve as warriors to assist in the breaking of evils to come, approached, with their odd, mutilated chant coming from jaws tentatively remaining in place. She saw Anck-su-namun pull back, head turning to face them as the tangled tendrils of her dried hair whispering in crackling waves, and could not help one last gibe--  
  
"Evie, old mum," Jonathan had said once, in a mock-serious tone as he pinched her nose affectionately, "that habit of yours, gettin' in the last word, it's going to get you into trouble one day."  
  
--her voice was nearly taunting, but more elated in the knowledge that she would live: "We shall see who will die now, Anck-su-namun." She spoke it clearly in perfect ancient Egyptian, so the meaning, the taunt, would be clear and acknowledged. And when the mummy swirled back on her, rage overwhelming the terror for only a moment, she wished she had not spoken. In a fluid motion, surprising for one who had sliced the blade in choppy motions when chasing her, unexpected to come from a hand that had not moved in three thousand years, Anck-su-namun drove the blade down in a swift arc, twisting its sharp point so it drove up Evelyn's diaphragm.   
  
A twisted reflection of her own triumph just a moment before appeared on the monster's face - God, she hated her, felt a surge of detest for this masticated figure of a woman that surpassed the "bitch" comments men preferred and directly into solid, impenetrable hatred - and she twirled the blade inside Evelyn's chest. Hatred and revulsion were swiftly replaced by agony - she could feel muscles and organs tearing, her diaphragm choking and sputtering so her breath came ragged, her lungs screaming with each movement as the blade was tugged deeper into them - and she sobbed, once, shortly.   
  
Anck-su-namun, or the reflection of what she once was, yanked it out, success livid in distortion on her flat, decayed features as she lifted the bloodied blade once, her demonic gauzed head leaning back with her final act. The guards descended on her, spears and horrific blades forcing her to the floor and gouging into the flesh that was already rotten, but Evelyn could not focus on it, cupping a hand to the one single gash in her chest. Even as she was reclaimed by darkness, the mummified princess had the strength to smirk with her wobbling, destroyed chin up at her.  
  
Distantly, she heard the scuffling sounds of a minor fight - powerful feet, two pairs, Imhotep's and Rick's approaching the same point; Jonathan! she thought with a consuming fear for her brother - but she closed her eyes, eyelashes sweeping her cheeks. She felt distanced, then, as though in spite of the pain and anguish lancing up her spine and through her chest, in spite of the trickles of crimson blood piercing the spaces between her fingers, she was relaxing into a deep, grand sleep.  
  
Oh, Jonathan, she thought drowsily as she slipped to the floor, watching the Med-jai mummies fade into a dust, their purpose fulfilled, and that dust form into a cloud that swirled up, fleeing to the jars unseen around the catacombs; this isn't so awfully bad, Jonathan, not anymore...  
  
"Jonathan?" she whispered, remembering her brother and praying, as the tears doubled. "Rick!" she remembered, and the pain magnified tenfold; but she was too weak to act on it, could only stare grimly at Anck-su-namun, whose body had already begun to fade anew into dust.   
  
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Jonathan reflected on the wisdom of the past several years of his life, the nuggets of wily thought that had reminded him *not* to get anywhere near the source of danger, but rather to run like hell in the opposite direction and pray to any god who might be willing to listen. He was fairly certain as he made a strangled noise, legs kicking in natural defense, that Imhotep's hand currently squeezing threateningly around his jugular had a great deal to do with this sudden wish he had paid mind to his own gut feelings at the time. Still, he figured groggily, what was done was done.  
  
Under the guise of trying to pull the creature's hand from his throat, which he was hoping would somehow happen as his back scraped against the wall he was being held up against, he frantically dug his hands into the sleeve of the frayed black robe. Years of picking pockets for lack of anything else and filching things from Evelyn's vanity to tease her with had worked their influence on him, and mentally he was swearing at Imhotep for having so many damn folds in his robe; as unconsciousness began to make itself known as an option, he tried to swallow his rising anxiety, suddenly feeling it was highly possible he would not find the key. Jesus bloody Christ, he thought dizzily, haven't you heard of pockets?  
  
Right as his fingers finally closed on the familiar, tarnished metal of the angled key, a glint of triumph flashing in his dark eyes, he caught sight of that blasted - or blessed, rather, he hoped God had a special place for him in the pantheon of saints - O'Connell coming running headfirst, swinging that blade. And then, quite promptly, Imhotep's arm was severed and Jonathan fell immediately to the ground, jerking the arm off as fast as he could and scooting away from it.   
  
He was not entirely surprised when the monster calmly lifted the arm up and attached it back to the wound, flesh slowly reattaching around the circlet of red marking where it had been cut off. Rubbing at his throat, he winced when Imhotep stalked toward O'Connell - who, like most sane people, was staring at him with an "oh goddamnhell" expression - and threw the American bodily across the chamber.  
  
O'Connell could handle himself, Jonathan figured as he clambered to his own feet, still rubbing at his throat as he wielded the key with a grin of success. "Evie!" he called, a little breathlessly where he had been choked. "I've got it!" For once, he realized, he had done something right, had managed to succeed where he had thought he would not, and the glory of this unexpected knowing that he could do something shot through him; he basked in it, for just the briefest second, before a small fear niggled its presence into the back of his head.  
  
Uneasily, he took a step forward and craned his head around, waiting for her to come running. "Evie?" he called again, a faint note of worry entering it. "I've got the key, Evie!" But she did not appear, did not make any replies, and the worry exploded into a protective fear, shoving him forward to launch himself into one of the entrances to the labyrinth catacombs.  
  
"Evie!" he cried, knuckles whitening around the key as, some instinct telling him to return to the book, he flew back to the Book of Amun-Re and tucked it under his arm. "Evie, why the bloody hell aren't you answering me?" She was the responsible one, Jonathan recalled as he moved back into the passages and tried to keep the gold book from sliding out of his grip; nothing could keep her from responding, at any point at anyone, not even him staggering drunk out of a sarcophagus in the museum or O'Connell tossing her over his shoulder and tossing her onto a bed.  
  
Except, he thought dimly, every muscle in his body melting into horrified bonelessness before tensing with the onslaught of disbelief, rationalization, and overwhelming grief: except, he continued, if she were to be dead. Which she was certainly not, because she absolutely could not be, and he dropped the book, shoving the key into his pocket - Evelyn would be horribly mad at him if he were to forget the key - as he dropped beside her.   
  
A peculiar strain of dust on the floor twisted sinisterly around his heels and he stared, uncomprehending, at the traces of where Anck-su-namun had fallen before he turned his gaze back to his sister. She had to be fine; she was smiling at him, faint though it was, and she moved her hands slowly out, as if to hold him just as once she had when they were younger, and oh God oh shitting God there was a thick, wet spot trailing down the front of her black nightgown.  
  
"O'Connell!" he screamed, lurching forward and grabbing frantically at his sister, pulling her close to him and brushing his quivering hand over her face. "God damn it, O'Connell! Don't fight him, get over here, get - get - oh God, Evie!" He felt a sob, stronger than any he had felt since the night his parents had failed to return from a fatal accident in a dig, tearing through him, saw his sister looking at him, her face both sadly understanding and curiously distanced.   
  
"Rick!" he cried, louder than ever, and staggered to his feet, somehow clutching Evelyn in his arms, her eyes beginning to close dreamily.  
  
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"Oh shit," Rick muttered, standing slowly and with some effort - Jesus, he hoped that uncomfortable feeling in his rib wasn't going to mean anything. Imhotep was coming towards him again and he looked about, desperately, trying to find something, anything, he could use to at least throw at the bastard before he was hurled through the air again. "Shit!" he yelled, a single cry, immediately before the dirtied collar of his shirt was grabbed tightly by the monster.   
  
Imhotep spoke a slow, hate-filled phrase, one Rick quickly decided was probably related more or less to the fact that Jonathan had just damned his girlfriend to hell again, and he slapped his other hand over the ruddy-haired American's throat. He gagged, feeling his air being cut off, and the sense of his windpipe closing was abruptly replaced by the equally uncomfortable sensation of hurtling through the air, legs and arms flailing helplessly.   
  
"*Shit*!" he repeated into the stones of the floor, rolling his eyes to shake his disorientation and staggering, clumsily, to his feet. He spotted a chunk of something or other on the floor and without pausing to consider whether or not it might, like so many things had recently, turned out to be possibly dangerous, hefted it, turning about to toss it with a screech of parting air at Imhotep's head.   
  
The creature twisted his head to the side, eyes not wavering from their hateful, intent purpose, and Rick swallowed heavily, already feeling bruises forming around the grip he had been temporarily freed from. He backed up, slow, scuffling steps and feeling a horrible sense of déjà vu - hadn't he just experienced the same sort of thing with the Med-jai mummies? Faintly, he heard the whatever-it-was plop into the ooze that filled the ancient reflecting pool on the opposite end of the room, and then Jonathan crying out:   
  
"Oh God, Evie! Rick!"   
  
He turned, instantly, and would most likely have been crushed by Imhotep in that reflexive movement of letting his guard down, recognizing the sheer terror of death he had heard in countless Legionnaires coupled with Jonathan shouting Evelyn's nickname - he would have been, were it not for a woman's voice rising from the pool, derisive and a light soprano quality to it.   
  
"That does nothing to help me, Lock-nah," she was saying with obvious anger, and Imhotep's shoulders stiffened, slowly turning around to stare at the glittering female figure rising out of the pool. She was delicately set, small and lithe with a long curtain of straight black hair as she snarled at an unseen figure. "I do not care how you must do it, and I do not care when, but you will see to it that those men," she spat the word out and Rick took advantage of Imhotep's stunned distraction to hurl himself bodily in the twisting passages he heard Jonathan yelling from, "do not dare interfere with my work again. I will not use my babies," the liquid illusion petted the head of a small asp that wound around her neck, illusion as well, "to do what you should have been able to do."   
  
"Anck-su-namun...?" Imhotep asked the illusion, his voice bated and his eyes wondering as he stared at the woman's figure. In the pool, the ivory head of Anubis, a faint rim of gold near its shattered neck, glittered where the American had thrown it, bubbles rising eerily from its jaw.   
  
Rick was of no mind to bother trying anything to attack the creature - he'd learned his lesson, damn it, and he was getting Jonathan and Evelyn out while he could - and skittered, sliding slightly on a strange slick spot on the floor, colored red, around a corner, his shoulder striking one of the walls painfully. Wincing, he noted, first, that the trail of crimson led to where Jonathan was half-jogging, still yelling out for Rick to get over immediately, and then second, it was coming from a small female figure clutched tightly in the Englishman's arms.   
  
Three strikes you're out, Rick thought faintly, feeling a ball of hatred and longing and anguish piercing the walls of his chest as he realized, third, it was Evelyn in his arms.   
  
The walls of the chamber began to quiver, showers of sand breaking from the stones to dash about, and Jonathan whirled around to see Rick staring at him, then at the walls with a sudden blank expression. "O'Connell," he said with relief - he could help, he always had done so before - "thank God you're here, Evie, she's--"   
  
"We have to go now," Rick interrupted, grabbing Jonathan's arm and pulling him to the exit, trying to keep from looking at Evelyn. Their Evelyn, his Evelyn, too still and quiet to be the real thing, her thick black hair hanging as a tangled waterfall from her limp, tilted head, a dark stain covering her nightgown where the redness of life had bled from the one stretch of skin visible along her abdomen.   
  
She was not dead, Rick thought; and he yelled it, screamed it, made it real in the air as he dragged Jonathan who carried her through the area, as he ignored Beni, who was frantically trying to flee the ruins and treasures of Hamunaptra shivering, drifting back into the sands from whence it came.   
  
And Imhotep did not move, staring as the ghost figure of the woman who was Anck-su-namun reborn spoke riddles of death to the unseen men surrounding her.   
  
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End of Murmurs in Death: Prologue   
  
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Notes: Feels rushed to me - and I could've done it better, I'm sure, but so it goes. I'll write the first chapter as soon as possible, 'kay? Keep reviewing, please! Oh, real quick - I know someone might think Imhotep is dead, but, since he *is* immortal, he isn't. Just temporarily delayed. ;]  
  
Feedback: Feeeed meeeee...  
  
Disclaimer: Until my nefarious plan to entrap Stephen Sommers, High Lord of Mummies, within my clutches so that I therefore may gain ownership of the characters (especially Jonathan!), I must state I don't own them. Urm - I'm only joking?  
  
Other: First published at http://graceofshadows.tripod.com/soincredible/ on July 7, 2003.   
  
Thanks: Akhesa (I certainly hope it's still interesting), SailorShipper (*grins sheepishly* well, a teaser is always good to judge whether or not people will actually *read* the story, and as I get older, I've found tons of things are entering my life, so, y'know, if nobody wants it, I won't post a story I'm not completely obsessed with writing - but I hope you haven't lost interest!), and Sitarra - many thanks for your comment, it was rather appreciated, as it actually inspired me to get off my butt and seriously research some stuff. My conclusion is about 95% sure that I'll be sticking to Nefertari as my spelling, for a variety of reasons: Nefertiri and Nefertari are used by alternating resources to refer to the same woman, who was Seti I's daughter and Rameses II's first (and central) wife. Nefertiri is the spelling used mostly in media, while Nefertari is the spelling used by several Egyptologists as well as the Egyptians of modern times (I'm currently in Abu Suwayr, Egypt). Whether or not Seti had a daughter named Nefertiti was an interesting point - I haven't been able to find anything I could use as proof either way - but I do know there was a Nefertiti in one of the preceding family lines, who was wed to Ahkenaten, the first monotheistic (of a whoppin' two, including his son Tutankhamen) of the pharaohs. Odds are you're right, but I'll stick to Nefertari for the time being. Many thanks, though!  
  
Oi - long thanks, no? Thanks, all. *bows* 


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